Last Field Harvest of the Season

Last night Don and I harvested nearly every last bloom in the field, with the threat of frost on the horizon, a damp chill in the air. And, today, snow falling from the sky on the blooms we passed by, giving it all a note of finality. Fall, it seems, never really happened in Maryland. Summer turned to winter, and the effect is somewhat jolting. There is much to be said for transitions, in nature and in writing. . . I struggle to teach my  students how to create a flow in their writing, but it is something, I believe, that is more innate, like an ear for music. Musicality is all about transitions, except for, perhaps, types of Jazz music that zig and zag in a cacophony of sound. . . but give me the transition: that soft easing into the next phase of life. . .

At the Root of it All

Slumber Valley, outside of Tunkhannock, Pennsylvania is where Don and I got our start, and we try to go back there every year to touch base with our roots.  It is a somewhat haunted place with memories and shadows of our former selves wandering around. When I look in the mirror of the rustic bathroom, I can see myself back then, in my Indian poncho, wondering where my life was headed, only knowing one thing for sure: that Don would be with me along the way. This past summer we shot video at the campsite and nearby waterfalls. We are working on a music video that will accompany the release of my novel, We Were Here,  as an e-book. There will be a soundtrack to the novel as well, songs we wrote together that helped shape our lives. We Were Here.  And, still, we are.